


After You

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Destiel - Freeform, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Dean, pain can be a good thing. The physical kind, anyway. Helps keep his mind away from that other ache, the one that Cas put there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After You

There's something to be said for being in pain.

The physical kind, I mean.

It blocks a lot of other shit out. Helps you to focus on what hurts, on what can be fixed with a few stitches and a band aid.

Helps you ignore the ache in your chest that won't go away, especially when he's not around. When all you have is like the ghost of a memory, a clatter of wings in your head. When he's right there in your mind but his body's far away, yeah. That's when it hurts to fucking breathe. When you're without him.

So I may have gone out of my way to get punched or slashed or bit, when he wasn't around. Just so I didn't hurt so damn bad, so I could watch myself bleed and breathe a sigh of relief knowing I'd have an excuse for the ache. That I could tell myself it wasn't love or something dumb like that. Not want or need or lust but just straight up American pain, blood loss and scabs and cuts you could see right there on my skin.

I knew better, see. Thought I had everybody fooled.

Except him, because shit, he didn't know I was alive, like that. Hell, he wasn't alive like that, was the closest thing I knew to a crash test dummy in terms of emotion but god, it didn't matter what I knew. I only cared about what I wanted, and knowing he didn't want me--he couldn't--broke my goddamn heart.

I hid it well, I thought. Kept it friendly with him and nonchalant with Sam. Didn't give either one a hint as to how I was feeling because, hell. I don't feel. Not like that. Not ever before.

And Sam was a little harder to fool, maybe. A little quicker on the draw in terms of my moods or whatever. But it still took him forever to even notice that anything was wrong. That I was acting any different than normal. It wasn't until we busted up that vamp nest near Toledo, the one where I leapt ahead and let myself get clobbered before Sam was even in the freaking door, that he even suspected.

And even then, he didn't know what it was. Couldn't put his finger on it exactly. Which made him nuts.

"De-an," he huffed. Watching me pick splinters out of my arm and glass out of my hair. "What the hell were you thinking, going in like that alone? You coulda been killed."

I shrugged, leaned into the counter. Trying to see the glass tweak in the bathroom mirror. "Nah," I said. "You had my back, Sammy."

He sighed and shouldered the doorframe. Skeptical.

"Bullshit," he said. "You were at least five paces ahead, man. You broke that door in on your own. You coulda been killed, you know." He said it simple, straight, like he was delivering the mail or something. Which he kinda was. We'd had discussions like this before. And sometimes we switch roles. The death wish, it moves between us like some awful brotherhood of attempted suicide or something, sometimes.

Still.

I ignored him. Fumbled for the Neosporin.

He snatched it out of my fingers and gave me a patented puppy dog, all sweet and concerned and so not what I needed, right then.

"Dean," he started, and I just pushed past him, took my bloody arms to bed and covered my head with a pillow.

He sat beside me for awhile. Watching. Waiting for me to need oxygen or something. But I'd gotten used to holding my breath. To choking back a sob and pretending everything was just freaking peachy in my little corner of the world.

Yeah.

After that, though, he kept his eye a little closer. Looking for clues, I guess.

So I kept my head down and let him go first.

**

Still. I dreamed about Cas all the damn time.

It wasn't like when he visited me, when he'd command me in my sleep or whatever.

These dreams were mine.

In my dreams, all we did was kiss.

It was always like, we wanted to do more. We tried. But there was always something there to stop us. Like, I'd try to take my shirt off, in the dream, so Cas could put his hands on my skin again and I'd get caught inside, my head snagged in the sleeve. Stuck.

Or I'd have on so many shirts that I'd be pulling and tugging and pulling and tugging and I'd wake up frustrated, my arms twisted around my chest.

Or a freaking marching band would storm in, parade around the bed, blasting, and not give us any peace.

Sometimes we couldn't even kiss because I'd have gum in my mouth, so much pink and gooey crap that I couldn't dig it all out, so much that Cas couldn't get his tongue in edgewise.

So yeah. Even in my dreams, we didn't fuck.

But at least there, in my head, he saw me. I mean like really saw. He knew what I wanted and he wanted me, too, and I loved him for that, when I dreamed.

And when he'd come around, when he'd appear out of nowhere like it was nothing, I'd have to remind myself that they were dreams. That he didn't know. That he'd freak the fuck out if I reached for him.

No.

That he'd give me that dead-eyed confused thing, that "humans are so fucking weird" look that he wears all the goddamn time.

So I'd sit on my hands if I had to. Cross my arms in front of my chest and frown and tell myself not to touch him. Not to try.

And he'd flap around and stand too close and look right into my eyes and it hurt, having him around. Almost as much as having him gone.

**

Then I went through a six-pack one night in Manchester and made a mistake.

Sam was out at the movies or something. Made noises about me coming out with him and not steeping in my misery or whatever, but really he was glad to leave me alone. We'd had one of those days where just the whiff of the other was enough to piss us off, where we were sick of seeing each other over the table and across the room and neither of us had the energy to fight. Not really.

So he ran and I drank and it was fine. Status quo.

I'd made it through the fifth and was working on number six when I heard that flutter behind my head.

Heard him sigh.

I ducked my head down, my back pushed into the foot of my bed, and pretended I was alone. Wasn't so hard.

"Dean," he said.

Yep. Alone.

He took two steps and hovered over me, his shadow draped over my head.

"Dean," he said again. A little pissy.

I took a long sip. Didn't look up.

And then he did something stupid.

He touched me.

Just a sweep of his fingers across my head. Then his palm, pressing.

"Are you injured?" he rumbled.

I laughed. Couldn't help it. Looked up and his hand slid down. Covered my cheek.

"Yeah," I said. Stupid. Drunk. "I am."

He looked alarmed.

"Where?" he said, peering down. "I do not see any--"

I grabbed his wrist and pulled, yanked until he was kind of kneeling beside me. Doing that stare thing so I all could see was blue.

"Look closer," I told him.

Kissed him.

It was awkward and cramped and he was at a funny angle but I swear, when our lips met it was--

Lights out. Game over. Whatever.

No going back, after that.

He made a noise, confused, I thought, or angry, but his other arm caught mine and he lifted me up, pulled me all the way in and gripped me tight.

Right.

I got my tongue around his and he opened his mouth for me. Let me in.

I snaked my arms around his neck and just fucking exhaled. Like, for the first time in months, I could breathe.

And he wasn't still. Oh no. He came right back at me, kissed me freaking hard, like full-on battering ram with his tongue and his teeth and fuck, it was incredible.

I guess I'd figured that he'd be, I don't know, a beginner or something. That I'd have to show him what to do, but no. Hell no.

He got a hand back up to my face and just ghosted, his nails his fingers taking me in piece by piece. Drop by drop.

My head fell back. My whole body got floppy and I tipped back over his arm, let him freaking invade me. Devour me. My name in his lips between kisses, disbelieving. Like he couldn't believe what he was doing. What I was. What we were, together.

I tried to say his name but it came out in a sob, this awful needy sound that made me shake. Made me push myself against him and do it again.

He moaned into my throat and held on. Didn't let me go.

"Yes," he said, his growl a little unsteady. "I am here. Dean."

I pitched my head up, wanting to see him, not giving a damn about whatever was falling out of my eyes. Was hung there.

He gave me this like beautiful smile.

"So," he said. "You are saying that you are injured--in your mouth? Or. Is there some other place that I should be looking? In order to render the appropriate aid."

Yeah, so. Maybe he needed to work on the dirty talk.

Still. Got me going, got me grinning back.

"Maybe," I said. "You willing to take that kind of time? Because I mean, you know. There are a lot of places for you to check."

Ok. Maybe I needed to work on it, too, but hey. Hard to be clever when there's a freaking angel with his hands on you, with his hips dug into yours, his tongue flicking over your lips.

This wave went over his face and he fucking shotputted me into bed. Dropped his overcoat and came scrambling up after.

"Dean," he said. Soft. His mouth on my jaw. "Please stop talking."

And he took my pain away, like he always does. Put something much better in its place.


End file.
